


Blush

by ahhhhh_linguine



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Biting, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Lots of neck kissing, M/M, Pet Names, Porn With Plot, Praise Kink, Recreational Drug Use, Rough Sex, and also derek, hints of erica/boyd, hints of scott/allison/isaac, i'm sorry for being a tender little bitch lmao, kind of, not-boyfriends to boyfriends, stiles really really loves his friends, they don't fuck!! they make LOVE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:41:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23493361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahhhhh_linguine/pseuds/ahhhhh_linguine
Summary: It starts, funnily enough, with dog jokes. There's the usual "fetch" and "woof woof" and all that, serving to make Stiles giggle and Derek growl low in his throat and flash dangerous eyes under his deliciously thick brows, but then it changes, because Stiles makes the wrong dog joke. Or maybe the right one.or the one where stiles figures out that derek has a praise kink and they have some super tender sex
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 18
Kudos: 574





	Blush

**Author's Note:**

> aight this is mad ooc but i had the sudden urge to write some praise kink stuff so here we are. i also haven't watched teen wolf since approximately 2014 so i don't really know/remember if any of this is true to the source material, but whatev. hope i can make up for it with some really really descriptive sex scenes xx
> 
> edit ok so i FORGOT that derek is a WEREWOLF and i wrote biting kink in because i am STUPID AS FUCK so please just pretend that in this universe uhhhhhhh nothing happens when a werewolf bites someone. my bad everyone

It starts, funnily enough, with dog jokes. There's the usual "fetch" and "woof woof" and all that, serving to make Stiles giggle and Derek growl low in his throat and flash dangerous eyes under his deliciously thick brows, but then it changes, because Stiles makes the _wrong_ dog joke. Or maybe the right one.

They're sitting around the Hale house dining table, digging into a celebratory "yay, we killed the lake spirit before it killed us" potluck spread. Stiles has his plate piled high with potatoes and a healthy portion of Boyd's famous grilled chicken crowded in next to his salad, and Derek is huddled in the chair beside him with his hand on Stiles' knee under the table and nothing on his plate save a huge piece of steak. Stiles snorts and almost makes a joke about that before deciding that it's too obvious and that he can do better.

"Can you pass the salt, Derek? Feeling the need to fuck up my blood pressure more than the lake spirit already did."

Derek complies with a grunt, and Stiles coos, "Good boy," using the tone he would with a puppy. Instead of his usual growl, though, Derek’s eyes widen just enough to be noticeable as he silently swallows his mouthful of food, a barely-there pink flush rising to his chiselled cheekbones.

_Huh. Didn't expect that._

Stiles - far from complaining - doesn't mention it, but instead decides to file it away for later and focuses on attacking his precariously high stack of potatoes.

***

It happens again. Stiles isn't really sure yet what he thinks will come of it, but he's never been good at keeping his mouth shut, so when Derek comes in from the backyard with a basket full of laundry and plops it down at the foot of the couch, Stiles tries again - half to see if the first time was a fluke, and half because he's only seen Derek blush a handful of times and he'll try anything in the world to make it happen again, to get that hit of giddy adrenaline it causes.

"Thank you for bringing that in," he says slowly, trying to gauge how Derek might react. "Good boy."

Its effect is immediate: halfway out of the room already, Derek's steps falter and Stiles hears him inhale a short, sharp breath through his nose. It fills him with a heady rush of pride, laced with visceral anticipation. He shifts in his seat on the couch to try and get a glimpse of the blush, but Derek is already out of the room. He vows to try it again later, wanting desperately to see again the shy look that had painted Derek's face when he'd said the words at the potluck.

***

He gets his chance the very next day; there's been a weird murder just outside of town, and Stiles, as he browses articles and interviews related to it, thinks the target may have been a member of the pack instead of the poor girl who bled out in the woods.

"I'll go and scope out the area," Derek says, "see if I can smell anything. Pick up a scent."

"That would be mega helpful," Stiles says. Then, deciding to push his luck: "You're being so helpful these days, Der. Such a good boy."

Derek swallows loudly and that delectable blush creeps up his neck and paints his cheeks and nose rosy. He shifts a little restlessly in his seat across the table from Stiles, and looks up at him almost grudgingly from beneath long lashes.

"Why?"

"Why what?" Stiles asks, feigning innocence.

"Why do you keep saying that? Why are you... I - are you deliberately pressing my buttons?"

Stiles bites back a grin. He lets his own warm gaze bleed into Derek's, trying to tell him with his eyes that his intentions are completely without malice.

"Yeah, I am. Because I want to," he says.

Derek, still blushing, snorts under his breath. "What about what I want?"

"You want me to, too," Stiles says before he can stop himself. He really hopes it's true.

Derek doesn't say anything, just casts his eyes downward again and fumbles for his keys.

***

They have a thing. It's not a relationship by any means, but there's very obviously more to it than just fooling around in secret, although neither of them has had the courage to admit that yet. In front of other people, they're nothing past what Stiles would call "friends", even though he'd lovingly wormed his way under Derek's skin since the first moment the werewolf had decided he was mildly tolerable. They're - amiable. Not quite buddies and certainly nowhere near the vicinity of best friends, but they make a show of putting up with each other in public, and in private... well.

Stiles crowds Derek into the wall, kissing wetly at his neck and hooking his fingers through Derek's belt loops. A pleasant surprise had awaited Stiles when they started this thing: given his aggressiveness in almost every other aspect of life, Stiles had expected to be met with the attitude of Derek's usual dominance, or at least a bit of roughness, but Derek had been surprisingly easy with letting him take control. Surprisingly _wanting_ of him to take control. They haven't had sex yet, haven't gone all the way, but Stiles thinks he might actually get to top for the first time in - well, in a while. Don't get him wrong, he _loves_ rough, fucked-up sex and being on the receiving end of it - but he also loves taking care of whoever he's with, especially verbally and _especially_ if it's Derek, who needs to be taken care of so obviously that it makes Stiles' heart ache.

Derek pants under him, pliant and needy, and keens when Stiles begins to suck a hickey under his jaw. Smiling into it, Stiles sucks harder and yanks Derek's hips towards him by the hold he has on his belt loops.

Derek's head thuds back against the wall. "So, we're not going to talk about it?" He croaks.

"About what? Ah, wait - is this about the whole "good boy" thing?"

Derek stretches his neck out of Stiles' reach and levels him with a flat look, and Stiles guffaws and rolls his hips up, delighting in the way Derek's eyelids flutter when their hard cocks meet through layers of denim.

"I'll be honest with you, Der, I think you might have a praise kink."

"I'll decide what kinks I have," Derek says prissily.

Stiles crowds him in even closer to the wall. He forgets that when he's standing up straight they're the same height, but he sure as hell uses it to his advantage when he remembers. It's easy to slip a thigh in between the werewolf's, to give him a bit of friction to rub against. He catches Derek's lips in a bruising kiss, pulling back and feeling a warm twist of satisfaction when Derek chases after him. Extracting a hand from between their hips, he brings it to Derek's face.

"Open," he says, not unkindly.

Derek's pink mouth falls ajar obediently. Stiles presses his thumb inside, grinning when Derek automatically closes his lips around the knuckle and begins to suck.

"You've got such a pretty mouth," he purrs, loving how the words feel on his tongue. "Pretty mouth for a pretty boy."

"I'm not pretty," Derek mumbles murderously around the digit, but he keeps sucking anyway as they both ignore his dick jumping in his jeans.

***

Stiles keeps on making terribly corny, borderline-offensive dog jokes, partly to rile Derek up and partly to tuck in a "good boy" here and there without it being too noticeable or out of place. He watches Derek blush from across the dining room table, watches him blush as he spars with Erica and Scott, watches him blush and press back shyly into the driver's seat of the Camaro, his hand gripping Stiles' thigh tight and a little too high up to be platonic. He drinks it up each time. Every hit he gets of Derek's shy eyes and flushed cheeks makes him crave more, and so along with the dog jokes and the "good boy"s, compliments creep into his vocabulary like appreciative mist, slowly and then all at once. He tries - at first - to keep the compliments behind closed doors, fearing that they would quickly give away the pair's budding closeness.

It's fun though, sometimes, to get a rise out of Derek in front of the pack. It adds a whole other layer to the blushing.

Investigating the scene of the weird murder, Derek had been successful in picking up a scent, and once they're sure of the man who matches it, they set about trying to capture him, or at least talk to him. He seems to be a rogue beta, not from around here. They catch him in a coffee shop, subtly crowding into it and standing by his booth and by the door so that he can't escape without making a ruckus - or probably, given the number of them, escape at all. Derek slides into the beta's booth, followed by Scott and Stiles. Erica and Boyd flank the doorway. Lydia and Allison sit in the next booth over, across from Isaac, and Jackson sulks over by the counter, ready to apprehend the beta if he tries to run. The beta is skinny and pale, with a dark shock of unruly hair and a raggedy looking grey coat draped over his thin shoulders. When he looks up to see them all there, his eyes widen - he seems to realise immediately that there's no way out without bringing the coffee shop crashing down around them. Stiles smirks.

"We have a few questions," Derek growls.

"Shoot," the beta says nervously.

Derek glances at Stiles out of the corner of his eye, and Stiles offers him a steady nod.

"You murdered that girl?" Derek asks.

"I - I don't -"

"We caught your scent, dude," Stiles says.

The beta swallows and sinks down in his seat. "It wasn't my idea. It - Maddy forced me to. It's supposed to be a trap. For you guys."

"Who's Maddy?" Derek demands.

"My alpha," the beta stutters.

"And you're more scared of us than you are of her? Divulging information so quickly, where's your loyalty?" Derek says condescendingly, lifting a bushy brow.

"Hey, man," the beta says, "She wanted to trap you guys."

"What do you mean by 'trap'?" Scott asks.

The beta shrugs. "You know, you try to find out who did what on your turf and it ends up looking like you did it."

"Why?" Derek asks.

The beta doesn't answer.

"Why?" Derek grinds out again, much more malice in his voice this time.

"To talk about territory," the beta babbles, caving. "She wants more info on the packs around here, she wanted to know which ones would be the easiest to overthrow. We didn't realise there were so many of you, or we never would have gone through with it."

"How many of us did you think there were?" Scott asks.

"Dunno, only a couple." The beta sounds nervous as hell and Stiles smiles vindictively.

"Disloyal _and_ stupid," Derek mutters. "We're going to have to punish you for the killing. Just a little something before we turn you in."

"I - please," the beta whines.

Derek growls. "This is not debatable. You do not get a say in your punishment, because you came into _our_ territory and killed an innocent girl. You will face the consequences."

"But -"

"You will face," Derek snarls, "the consequences."

The beta nods meekly, looking incredibly shaken, and Stiles feels something dangerously akin to pride billow in his gut, right next to the tight ball of lust that erupts every time Derek uses his snarly-voice. Stiles grins and gestures to Erica, who echoes his grin and raises a beckoning finger towards the beta. "See the blonde by the door? That's Erica. She's gonna escort you out, and if you try any funny shit we might have to kick your ass in this here coffee shop - and that would totally suck, because it's one of our favourite coffee shops and for your own sake, I don't think you want its destruction getting added your list of grievances."

The beta nods but doesn't move.

"Go. Now," Derek hisses.

The beta jumps a little and nods again, his thick shock of hair bobbing with the movement, and slides quickly out of the booth and towards where Erica and Boyd wait by the door.

Allison, Lydia, and Isaac pop their head over the separator between the two booths the pack occupies and Jackson wanders over from the counter, keeping a wary eye on the beta as he's escorted out.

Before any of them can say anything, Stiles decides to act on something he's been thinking about all morning; it's been two whole days since he's seen Derek blush, and in his books, that's far too long. "That was impressive."

"What?" Derek scowls.

"You really scared him," Stiles says, letting a lecherous sort of appreciation creep into his voice. "You're good at taking control like that. I dunno if anyone's told you lately, but leadership and intimidation tactics are looking really nice on you these days."

"Thank you," Derek grits between his teeth, the now-familiar flush creeping faithfully up his neck and across his cheeks.

"What are you blabbering about, Stilinski?" Jackson says, close enough now to lean a hip against the back of the booth.

Stiles smiles. "Nothing," he says sweetly. "Just that Derek did a really good job today."

"Alright, weirdo," Jackson snorts, but Stiles doesn't care - he's too enthralled with the way that Derek is trying desperately to hide the fact that his whole face has gone pink.

***

Lydia bumps her hip against his as they exit the coffee shop. "Someone's getting a little familiar, huh?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Stiles says cheerfully, holding the door open for her.

She huffs. "You just spent, like, half a conversation kissing his ass. Are you two fucking?"

"What? Don't be ridiculous, Lyds."

She pins him with a knowing look as they walk into the parking lot, and he offers her an innocent smile.

He's not lying to her - they're not fucking. Not yet, anyway.

***

"You didn't have to do that in front of the pack," Derek grumbles.

Stiles unbuttons his flannel, sitting on the edge of the bed. "They're gonna catch on eventually."

"To what? To me... liking -" Derek says the word like it's personally hurt him - "compliments?"

"No, dummy," Stiles laughs. "To the fact that we have, like, a thing."

"A thing," Derek says flatly.

"A thing," Stiles confirms, shrugging out of his flannel entirely and pulling at the hem of his t-shirt. "I don't know what you want me to call it; it's not nothing."

"No, of course it's not," Derek grunts. "But you didn't have to embarrass me."

"Au contraire," Stiles says with a smirk. "You look really sexy when you blush."

"Shut up," Derek mumbles, pulling his own shirt over his head and dropping it on the bed beside Stiles. He leans down to press a warm kiss to Stiles' lips, one hand on his thigh and one cradling the back of his head. Stiles unbuttons his pants, lifting his hips a little so he can shove them down and clumsily kick them off. His shirt follows; Derek pulls away from the kiss and tugs it over his head while Stiles grins. His stomach does a little flip-flop when he settles his hands on Derek's bare hips and the werewolf lets his eyes squeeze shut, his breath coming out on a soft hum. He looks so fucking hot like this, bare-footed and clad only in jeans, the hard-won muscles of his torso rippling with every movement.

"We can talk about it whenever you want, I'm serious," Stiles says, looking him up and down appreciatively and pressing a chaste kiss to his stomach. "Safe, Sane, Consensual, all that jazz, whatever you need, but if you're okay to go with it right now I really wanna try something."

Derek doesn't respond except to flex his hands where they've come to rest on Stiles' thighs, so Stiles reaches up to palm the werewolf's half-hard cock through his jeans.

"Derek," he says, "I'm real horny right now and I wanna try something, but I need you to say yes first, okay?"

"Is it... more of the "good boy" stuff?" Derek asks gruffly, a hitch in his voice as he says it.

Stiles squeezes his dick and delights in the way it makes him squirm. "It sure fucking is, sweetheart. Is that okay?"

Derek nods, already beginning to blush. "More than," he mumbles.

"Good," Stiles breathes. He's tenting his boxers, and, desperate for a little more contact, he pulls Derek down to capture his mouth in another bruising kiss. Slipping closer in between his thighs but still standing, Derek kisses him like he needs to keep their lips pressed together to breathe, and Stiles notes with a deep satisfaction that he pants harshly when Stiles bites his bottom lip and tugs it into his mouth to suck on.

_Here goes nothing._

Stiles spreads his legs wider. _  
_

"You gonna show me what a good boy you can be?" He murmurs against Derek's lips. Derek nods, almost frantically. "Good," he breathes. "On your knees."

Derek drops down between his thighs like it's the easiest thing in the world, resting his elbows against Stiles' hipbones and skimming his huge hands all over Stiles' bare torso. Skin singing with goosebumps everywhere the werewolf touches and cock rapidly filling with blood, Stiles lets out a pleased little hum.

"I might get real freakin’ dirty and weird soon, and I'm definitely gonna talk a whole bunch. You tell me if it's too much, okay?"

Derek nods.

"Good boy."

Derek looks up at him. His eyes flash with need and his cheeks are already colouring that familiar, delicious pink, and Stiles has to press his hands against the bedspread beneath him so that he doesn't reach out and take - he wants to draw this out, but at this rate, with Derek kneeling between his legs and looking up at him all wanting and rosy and demure, it's going to be way harder than he thought. So instead of reaching out to touch, he keeps his fingers curled in the sheets and does what he does best: he talks.

"You really were amazing today," he murmurs. "When you take control like that, it's gorgeous; I wasn't lying when I said it looks good on you. You're scary hot and you're super hot when you're scary."

Derek's breathing is already coming shallower, so he presses on. "You're such a good fucking boy, you deserve all the praise in the world. Fuck, Der, I can't even tell you."

Stiles feels a hot curl of satisfaction when Derek keens and nuzzles against his thigh, but he hasn't been told to do anything else yet and he seems to understand that Stiles wants him to wait, so he does.

"And you were so gracious, too, sweetheart. So fucking sexy, sitting there taking my praise."

Derek pants and kisses the place where the hem of Stiles' boxers sits soft on his skin _,_ nosing his way even further up Stiles' thigh. Stiles bites his lip; he's hard and flushed under the fabric, and the heat of Derek against his skin is making his heart beat like a drummer on coke. He tenatively stretches out a hand to thread it through Derek's dark, spiky locks.

"If I've been so good," Derek says petulantly against his leg, "then reward me."

Stiles laughs and tugs Derek's hair hard enough that his head is pulled back and his throat juts out in a beautiful smooth tan curve _._ "Needy," he says.

Derek nods in agreeance, looking a little desperate.

"Alright," Stiles purrs. "Take my dick out."

Derek does, tapping the side of Stiles' thigh so that he lifts his hips, making it easier for Derek to shimmy his boxers down and off. Stiles' cock springs free, red and hard and ready, and he sucks in a breath as a bubbling need begins to coil deep in his gut.

"Good boy," he says. "Touch it."

Needing no more convincing, Derek quickly licks his palm before reaching out and wrapping calloused fingers around Stiles' length, starting to jack him slow and rough. Stiles lets his head loll back. Fuck, that's good.

"Lick it," he bites out.

Derek leans forward to press the flat of his tongue, hot and warm, just under the crown. When Stiles glances back down, Derek is staring up at him through his lashes, still tugging on his length with one big hand while his tongue curls around the head.

"Fuck, good boy."

Derek groans and licks a wet, molten stripe up the underside of Stiles' dick. The tip of his tongue catches on the jutting vein, and Stiles can't stop himself from canting his hips up and letting out a shaky breath.

He seeks out Derek's gaze again, waiting until he has it to say: "Be a good boy and suck."

Derek responds immediately and obediently, enveloping the head in tight, wet heat and sucking in as hard as he can as he moves his mouth down Stiles' length. Stiles gasps and cards his fingers through Derek's hair, wondering how the fuck he denied himself this for, like, ten whole minutes. It feels so fucking _good_ , and he makes sure to let Derek know.

"Yeah, that's it sweetheart, you're doing so well. You're so fucking good at this, holy shit."

Derek hums under the praise, taking Stiles deeper. He sets up a steady rhythm, sucking down and then pulling back up to kiss the head and stab his tongue into the slit before diving back down to take even more of Stiles into his mouth. Stiles arches off the bed, trying desperately to keep his hips in check so he doesn't accidentally fuck forward and choke Derek, cause that would be - that would be _bad_ , Stiles tells himself, because as much as he wants to fuck Derek's mouth, Derek hasn't asked for that yet, and fucking someone's mouth without their permission is a total dick move (pun intended). Unfortunately, Stiles knows this from experience.

Derek's hand keeps working on the length he can't fit in his mouth, the slide of it becoming easier as spit dribbles down from where his lips are stretched around Stiles' girth, and Stiles whines, pulling Derek's hair harder.

"Oh _fuck_ , Der, you're so fucking good at this. You're so good for me, holy shit. You look so good on your knees, so fucking pretty on your knees, choking on my dick, good boy - oh _fuck_ -"

Derek pulls off his dick with a pop and mutters something unintelligible, avoiding eye contact.

"Speak up, sweetheart."

Derek groans and pumps his hips uselessly into the air. "Call me a slut," he whispers, the blush working its way firmly and intensely across his chest in a cherry red swathe. It's gorgeous.

Stiles gasps and his hips twitch of their own accord. "Fuck, that's hot," he mutters. "You really wanna be called a slut?"

Derek nods and takes Stiles' cock back into his mouth, sucking it at such an angle that Stiles can see the outline of the head bulging in his cheek.

"Okay, fuck." He takes a shaky breath, feeling himself draw closer to the edge. He can hear his voice getting more and more reverent, but there doesn't seem to be a single thing he can do to stop it. "You really are so fucking good at this. Such a good little slut -" Derek moans "- so good at sucking my dick, it's like you were made for this. For me."

Derek pulls his hand away from Stiles' cock entirely, moving it down to palm ferociously at himself through his jeans and breaking his rhythm so he can take Stiles in deep deep deep and rock his head minutely, milking the tip of Stiles' dick in the tight squeeze of his throat.

"Oh _Jesus_ that's good, holy fuck. You're so good to me, baby." He's babbling now, chasing his orgasm - it's close, so fucking close. "You walk around like this big bristly guy, so aggressive and so composed and no one would ever fucking guess, no one would ever guess looking at you that you're fucking perfect on your knees, that you're meant to be on your knees, that you're a needy little cockslut - people should be so goddamn fucking jealous of me, because I have the world's most perfect slut wrapped around my dick, sucking it down like it's oxygen, beautiful little _slut_ -"

Derek makes a muffled choking sound, pulling off of Stiles' dick entirely to gasp out a loud, " _Fuck_ ," and then his whole muscly, blushing body shudders.

There's a pause.

Stiles gapes. "Did you - did you just come in your pants, dude?"

Derek nods languidly, reaching up to grip the base of Stiles' cock again. He presses a warm kiss against the throbbing tip of it. "You did that to me," he sighs happily. "Chatty bitch."

Stiles laughs and then his laugh stutters into a moan as Derek starts to jack him off again with purpose, hard and fast and slippery with spit. It only takes half a dozen strokes before Stiles is tightening his hands in Derek's hair and gasping out, "Oh shit, Der, I'm gonna -" and then Derek lazily bites the inside of his thigh and Stiles comes like a gunshot, striping thick ribbons of white over his own hands where they're buried in Derek's hair.

Derek growls against his thigh and gives him another playful nip as he shudders with the aftershocks. "That's gonna be really hard to wash out."

"Sorry," Stiles chokes out. "Kinda got distracted when you bit me."

Derek hums. "Something to look into later?"

"Something to look into later," Stiles confirms.

***

Everyone's late. They're supposed to be meeting for lunch and to discuss how to deal with this encroaching alpha - Maddy - but everyone is late. Stiles and Derek, having arrived at the diner together, are the only ones of their group there. Stiles - bored and a little restless - pours them both glasses of water from the pitcher on the table, checks his watch, checks his phone, takes stock of all the other people in the diner, checks his watch again, and then reaches over and cups Derek's dick loosely through his pants.

"Stiles," he hisses.

"There's a long-ass tablecloth," Stiles shoots back. "We're fine."

Derek lets out a breathy, aggravated-but-aroused sigh and arches his hips up into Stiles' hand. Stiles grins and presses the heel of his palm down, offering Derek more pressure, and Derek rolls up to meet it, huffing out a shaky breath through his nose.

"Gorgeous," Stiles murmurs.

"Shut up," Derek grunts, practically fucking up into Stiles' hand.

He quickly stills his hips when the bell over the door jingles and Scott wanders in with Isaac, Allison, and Lydia in tow. Stiles leans away from him to give the illusion of distance, but underneath the tablecloth, he keeps his hand exactly where it is. Erica, Boyd, and Jackson show up in the next five minutes, and they all order and begin their discussion.

"I think we should try and arrange a meeting with her," Allison says.

"That's a good idea," Scott agrees, gazing at her lovingly.

"Sure," Stiles says, "but what if she tries something janky? We have no idea how big her pack is or anything."

Erica snorts. "Maybe you don't. I took the liberty of asking our dickless new friend a couple more questions, and it sounds like there's only two other betas."

Derek grimaces. "What packs did she think she could overthrow with four wolves?"

"He could be lying," Jackson says.

"I agree with Whittemore, for once," Stiles nods. "How do we know he's not?"

Boyd chuckles, throwing Erica a fond look. "You didn't see his face. I'm pretty sure he wasn't."

They ponder how to get Maddy a message to ask for a meeting without letting their captured beta go, and after twenty minutes of going in circles - and their food hasn't even arrived yet, which is making everyone a little snappier - Derek, who's been sitting there the whole time with Stiles' hand resting over his cock, excuses himself to go to the bathroom.

Stiles immediately tugs his phone out of his pocket.

_S: u better not be jerking off w/out me_

It takes a few moments, but his phone lights up with a new message.

_D: just peeing. sorry to disappoint._

Stiles tunes back into the discussion for a second, realises they're back on an idea they'd had ten minutes ago and already dismissed, and tucks his hands even further under the table to tap something out.

_S: not disappointing. wanna be there when u come, u look so beautiful. angel  
_

_D: you're ridiculous._

_S: no UR ridiculous, has anyone ever told u that u suck dick like a freakin magician? u are so good idek what to do with myself_

A pause. Still no sign of their food. Then:

_D: you have terrible timing, asshole._

Stiles snickers as quietly as he can. Lydia gives him a look - of course she notices - but doesn't say anything.

_S: oh woe is me, i'm derek hale and i get sulky when my not-boyfriend tells me i'm beautiful_

_D: stiles._

_S: what? u look so fuckin good with a dick in ur mouth. u look so gorgeous sucking cock like a good little slut_

_D: timing. terrible._

_S: and u were so good for me out here, being quiet with my hand on ur dick. so good der_

_D: fuck_

There's no response after that, and Stiles expects Derek to come sheepishly sauntering back in at some point _,_ but he doesn't. Their food comes, and Stiles has to tell the waitress to put Derek's huge burger down at the empty space next to him.

_S: food's here_

No response. Stiles has a small revelation.

_S: are u not coming out bc ur blushing real hard?_

_D: >:(_

Stiles laughs and his friends definitely notice, but he just shakes his head at them and wiggles his phone. "Meme," he bluffs by way of explanation.

_S: send me a picture._

When Derek doesn't respond, Stiles types out, _send me a pic of ur blush or i s2g i'll eat ur burger_ , and then sits back and waits eagerly for the reply. Everyone has abandoned the discussion for the moment in favour of eating, and Stiles snacks on his curly fries while he waits.

His phone lights up with a new message _,_ and he opens it greedily. It's a picture of Derek, his gray Henley tugged down in the front by thick fingers to show the flush on his chest. It matches the one spread delicately across his cheeks, and even in the crappy bathroom lighting, it's beautiful. Derek looks firmly disgruntled, his eyebrows lowered and his mouth twisted into a little frown, and it's _so_ fucking cute. Stiles saves the picture to his phone - it's absolutely gonna come in handy later. Heh. Come in handy. He's hilarious. _  
_

He pushes his phone back into his pocket and really digs into his lunch.

"Where's Derek?" Scott asks through a mouthful of soup, looking like a confused puppy.

"I think he's taking a shit or something," Stiles says.

***

"You _are_ fucking," Lydia hisses, accusatory. "You totally lied to me, Stiles."

The lunch long gone and the plans to lure Maddy to a meeting firmly in place, they'd all gone back to the Hale house - their communal house, really - to lounge around and watch TV. Lydia had pulled him into the backyard with one long-nailed hand in a tight grip around his wrist, both of them blinking in the bright autumn sun.

"Did not," Stiles protests.

"Did too," she says. "Look me in the eyes and tell me you guys weren't texting at lunch."

Stiles sighs. "Okay, we were. But I didn't lie to you, Lyds, we haven't even made it up to fucking yet."

"Aha!" She grins ferociously. "I knew it! Tell me everything - I'm supposed to be the first one to know about this kind of stuff, anyway."

"You are the first one," Stiles says, amused.

They sit down on the back steps of the porch.

"Not even Scott?"

"Scott," Stiles says, "does not possess your frankly wonderful observational skills."

"No one does," she sniffs.

***

Lydia really is queen of social media stalking; she finds Maddy's Facebook profile in less than half an hour - confirmed by the beta - and less than half an hour after _that_ , with the help of the entire pack crowding around to help choose the right words, they've got a tentative meeting scheduled. _  
_

Stiles whistles and gives her a jubilant nod. "You really are something, Miss Martin."

"I know," she says with a smile.

"Yo," says Scott from the corner of the couch, snuggled in Isaac's arms and halfway through an episode of Game Of Thrones. "It's a Friday night and we're totally on our way to avenging a murder. Let's get a little sloshed."

"Or blazed," Allison says from under Isaac's legs.

"Or blazed," Scott agrees.

Derek walks in through the back door _._ He's sweaty from his jog and he looks a little like a model or something in a t-shirt and tight basketball shorts with the sun blaring in behind him, and Stiles' mouth goes dry and his pulse kicks it the hell into gear.

"Did you find her?"Derek asks.

"Lydia did," Scott says. "We have beer in the fridge, right?"

***

Stiles is warm from the beer and even warmer from the weed, and he's still clear-headed but everything is a little fuzzy around the edges and wow, he is _horny_. Derek hadn't bothered to change, only pulling on a soft maroon sweater after the sun had dipped below the horizon and the night had grown cooler, and Stiles - after sitting there watching his butt in those basketball shorts all night - had finally gotten enough stuff in his system to saunter upstairs and send Derek a text that said, _get up here soon or else._

Ten minutes after he's flung his shirt into the corner of the room and sunk into the soft weight of Derek's bed, the door opens, revealing a slice of orange light, before clicking quietly shut. _  
_

"Der?" He cranes his neck, staring into the dark and then fumbling for the lamp switch when that doesn't work.

"Yeah," comes the gruff reply.

He turns the lamp on. Derek is standing there looking soft and homey in his sweater, and he pads closer to the bed, a tiny bit wobbly.

"I'm a little fucked _,_ " Stiles tells him. "Just a little."

"Lightweight," Derek snorts, flopping onto his back on the bed next to him.

"Hey, it's not like you're sober."

"Hmmgh," Derek says. _  
_

Stiles props himself up on one elbow and gazes down into the werewolf's face.

"Oh, shit dude, your pupils are _huge_ ," he says. "Are you, like, mega stoned?"

"Nah," Derek rumbles. "I'm okay, only had a little bit. What's the opposite of mega? I'm, like... I'm micro stoned." _  
_

Stiles laughs. "You're so cute."

"Hey, stop that," Derek says, turning on his side to curl up to Stiles' body.

"No," Stiles says. "You're really, really fucking cute. And also, I just remembered how much I love sucking your dick, and if I don't get to do that tonight I might actually die." _  
_

Derek huffs out a laugh and flops out onto his back again. It makes Stiles' insides curl with warmth. "You're being over-dramatic."

"I am _not_ ," Stiles replies, mock offended. Playing along, though, he throws a hand up over his forehead in an exaggerated swoon, and sighs, "I will die this very night, Sir Hale, if your dick I cannot suck."

Derek laughs a loud, full belly laugh, and Stiles' chest feels like a star has burst inside of it. He rolls over so that he's on top of Derek, sprawled across the other man's beefy frame, and props himself up on his hands so that he can gaze down at his face.

"Can I please suck you off?"

Derek smiles - his widest, rarely seen bunny-tooth smile, and Stiles thinks that it might be even more intoxicating than the beer and pot combined. But before Derek can respond, Stiles makes a quick decision and changes tact.

"Actually wait, that's not a question. Let me suck you off."

Derek's still smiling wide but there's an edge of competitive heat behind it now, a glimmer of want. He nods.

Stiles, hoping this comes off as sexily as he wants it to, leans in so that his lips are brushing the shell of Derek's ear and purrs, "Thank you. Good boy."

It seems to have the intended effect, because Derek's hips buck up under him and he lets out a rumbling moan, his thick eyebrows knitting together. Stiles grins and shimmies his way down the bed, delighted to find that Derek is quickly getting hard in his basketball shorts. Utterly content with this turn of events and perhaps spurred on a little by all the shit in his system, Stiles flashes Derek the most impish smile he can and carefully tucks Derek's shorts underneath his balls, pleased to find that he's not wearing underwear and even more pleased to find that his cock is almost fully hard - they haven't even freaking done anything yet.

"You're so hard for me," he says appreciatively. "That's fucking hot."

"Shush," Derek mumbles happily.

Stiles leans in to press a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the underside of his dick and licks up to the head to slurp it into his mouth. He bobs his head down, really getting into it, before feverishly realising that Derek is moaning and it's like, _really_ loud. He makes his way back up Derek's body and presses a thumb to his bottom lip.

"Hey, baby," he says, "I really like the noises you make. They're really good noises - they're really sexy noises. But our pack is, like, ten feet below us and a little to the left and most of them have super hearing anyway, so I'm gonna need you to be a really good boy and bite down on the sheet or your hand or something, okay?"

Derek, looking at Stiles with blown pupils like he's the only thing that matters right now, gives a sluggish nod and drags a pillow across the bed to shove into his mouth. He never tears his gaze from Stiles' - almost like he's searching for approval. Stiles gives it to him.

"Good boy," he whispers filthily, dragging his lips along the stubbly curve of Derek's jaw. "You're such a perfect fucking angel for me. Such a good little slut."

Derek groans into the pillow.

Satisfied, Stiles wiggles his way back down to Derek's dick, rubbing his torso along it as he goes and feeling a thrill at the trail of sticky precome that gets smeared onto his skin. He wastes no time in getting Derek back into his mouth, sucking him down as far as he can and really going to town. This might be the most enthusiastic blowjob he thinks he's ever given, which means that it's a little sloppy, but from the way Derek is biting down on the pillow he thinks it's going pretty darn okay. He can feel his own dick sitting hard as a rock against his hip inside his sweatpants. He bobs his head a couple more times, sucking in hard like his life depends on it, before popping off with a slick wet sound and moving further down to nose at Derek's balls.

He presses a tender kiss onto the warm, taut flesh of Derek's muscular left thigh. "Slut," he breathes into Derek's skin.

Derek's right thigh, just as muscular, receives the same treatment. He peppers kisses everywhere his mouth can reach: Derek's thighs, his hips, his tummy, his cock - and between the kisses, he whispers "slut" and "good boy" and "gorgeous boy", knowing that even if he barely makes a noise, Derek can hear him. Derek rolls his hips up off the bed, desperately turned on and searching for relief, and Stiles grins before pressing a filthy kiss to the head of his dick.

"Tell you what, sweetheart," he utters softly. "If you're a really good boy, a really perfect little slut, and you keep biting down on that pillow for me and you don't make a noise, I'll let you come down my throat. How does that sound?"

Derek presses this animalistic sort of vibrating _thing_ into the pillow, a heady, inhuman mix between a whine and a growl, and his hips buck up so hard that Stiles has to dodge them in order to avoid getting hit in the face.

"Yeah, I thought it sounded good, too," he laughs, and sucks Derek's dick back down.

He's pulling out all the stops, licking and sucking and opening his throat around Derek as best he can. It's really wet and _really_ messy, and Stiles feels incredibly accomplished when Derek's whines into the pillow grow higher and higher and his dick blurts out precome onto Stiles' tongue. He moves a hand up from where it's pressed against Derek's hip, trying - mainly in futility - to hold him in place. He traces along the bottom of Derek's ribs and then slips his hand under Derek's shirt and sweater to press it flat against the small of his back. Stiles just holds his palm there for a moment, enjoying the warmth, and then he drags his nails along Derek's skin, scratching big long lines at the same time as he hollows his cheeks as hard as he can, and Derek writhes under him and moans into the pillow as he shoots pulse after pulse of sticky come into Stiles' mouth. Swallowing, made easier by the beer, the weed, and his own stubborn determination, makes him cough a little but it's _totally_ worth it when he crawls back up the bed to face Derek and sees his expression. Much to his pleasure, it's one of full-blown wonderment. Sure, they're both a little buzzed right now, but that look feels like it means something. Something new. He yanks the pillow from Derek's mouth and leans down to give him a fierce kiss, tracing along his gums with his tongue.

"Can you taste yourself?" He pants.

Derek nods.

Stiles grins. "Good. Do you like it?"

Derek, albeit slightly more hesitantly, nods again.

"Good," Stiles says again. "Slut."

Derek twitches pleasantly at that and slings a heavy arm over Stiles' torso.

"Thank you," he breathes gruffly into Stiles' ear.

"My pleasure," Stiles says, and it really is.

***

Derek tucks himself back in and rolls his eyes when Stiles asks if he can hold his butt through his basketball shorts - "no funny business, I promise," Stiles had breathed, "maybe a little squeeze. It just looks so good in these shorts, holy fuck" - and less than five minutes after he'd swallowed down Derek's jizz, Stiles is coming hard across his own stomach, with Derek's hand slowly stripping his dick and Derek's teeth latched sharply on to a pre-existing hickey that's nestled under his jaw. Derek holds him as he shudders through the aftershocks, and when he's all spent, slides down the bed to throw a wolfish grin up at Stiles and begin lazily licking the come off his stomach.

They're both still buzzed as fuck, and Stiles can't remember ever being this warmly content in his whole entire life. He cards his fingers through Derek's hair and sighs happily.

"I think we should be boyfriends," he says.

Derek stops licking and there's a heavy silence before he says, "What?"

"I think," Stiles repeats gently, "that we should be boyfriends. Like, actually date."

Derek takes his sweet time responding and a sharp bundle of nerves curls unpleasantly in Stiles' gut. He's just beginning to wonder if he's made a huge mistake when he feels a big hand pulling his own from Derek's hair and carefully twining their fingers together.

"Okay," Derek says.

***

They don't really make a point to tell anyone, except for Lydia and Scott, because they know those two will care if they don't. Lydia kisses them both on each cheek. Scott lets out a wild whoop and gives Stiles about eighty high fives throughout the rest of the day, leaving both their hands red and aching in the very best way. The rest of the pack, they leave to figure it out - after all, it's not exactly like they're hiding it anymore. Erica discovers them cuddling on the couch and swiftly offers raucous (and slightly lascivious) congratulations. Isaac notices them holding hands and claps Derek proudly on the back, Allison is told by both Lydia and Scott and proceeds to buy them a beautiful bouquet of flowers ("you didn't have to, Ally," Stiles laughs), and Jackson and Boyd, the poor fuckers, walk in on them making out in the hallway, sloshed as all hell after a Bee Movie drinking game and giggling into each others' mouths. Jackson rolls his eyes but smiles wide, and Boyd nods firmly and monotones, "Finally. Thank God," causing Stiles and Derek to descend into a fit of howling laughter on the hallway floor.

It's nice, being able to hold each others' hand above the table instead of under it. Nice to be able to kiss hello and goodbye. The first dozen times he says it, Stiles trips over the word "boyfriend," but after he spends a night giddily muttering it over and over into Derek's chest as the werewolf fingers him open, it feels a lot more natural as it trips sweetly off his tongue.

However, there is one tiny (huge) drawback: for fear of accidentally exposing his lover and then suffering a thorough and utterly humiliating bout of kink-shaming at the hands of the pack, Stiles double triple quadruple swears that he won't call Derek "good boy" in public anymore. It's way harder than he thought it would be to suck it back behind his teeth every time he wants to say it - he hadn't realised how often he'd used the phrase, and honestly at this point he's surprised none of the pack have put two and two together already. He fucks it up a couple times and has to awkwardly improvise his way out.

"Wow, what a good... good for you," he trips out when Derek announces proudly to the pack over dinner that he's reached one of his running goals.

"Good - good - good grief, thank you so much," he falters when Derek passes him the TV remote. Erica raises her eyebrow but doesn't say anything.

"Good -" he starts once when he's on the phone with Derek before realises that Scott and Lydia can hear him from the back porch. "Good. I'm good, thanks, how are you?"

His coverups don't seem to get less awkward or less needed, probably no thanks to the fact that he doubles down on his use of the phrase in bed to make up for the fact that he can no longer say it whenever he wants. Its effect on Derek hasn't seemed to dull at all since Stiles' first use of it way back at the potluck - if anything, it's gotten more intense. Stiles has found the right combination of "good boy" and "slut" and "perfect" and "angel" to make Derek's whole body flush like a sexy tomato, and Derek seems to like it almost more than he does - which would be a feat, because Stiles freaking _loves_ it.

Not everything in their sex life is about Derek, though.

***

It's been a week (almost to the hour, but who's counting? not Stiles, that's for sure) since they'd decided to date. Stiles is woken up from an afternoon nap by the feel of fingers cupping his ass and a warm nose against the side of his throat, and he shifts where he is on his belly so that his half-hard cock presses deliciously down into the sheets.

"Mmm," he sighs. "Hi."

"Hey," Derek rasps into his neck.

Golden and bright like molten honey, the sun pours into Derek's bedroom, painting Stiles' bare body with a wide swathe of yellow as if coated by a lover's tender brushstroke. The tips of Derek's fingers gently trail along the curve of his ass and up his spine, and Stiles wriggles backwards into the touch.

Derek kisses his neck wetly. "Your moles are so nice," he says. "They're like little constellations."

Stiles lets out a peal of laughter as bright as the glow on his skin. "That's so cheesy, dude."

Derek nuzzles into him more deeply and huffs out a growl that sounds... hurt?

Stiles slides an arm under himself and out the other side so he can paw gently at Derek's jaw, turning the other man's face towards his and capturing his lips in a kiss so sweet it's almost embarrassing. "Hey," he breathes against Derek's lips. "I like cheesy. I _love_ cheesy. You know me, babe, there's no way I'd rather have it."

Derek huffs and grudgingly nips his lower lip, which sends a flush of blood straight down to Stiles' cock.

"Except maybe... bite-y," he ventures cheerfully. "Cheesy is good, but - mm. Bite-y."

Derek snorts against his chin and complies, nibbling a trail of marks down the side of Stiles' neck. Stiles lets out a breathy little groan, rolling his hips and grinding his dick into the mattress as Derek's mouth travels further down the side of his torso. He pulls away and Stiles whines petulantly, twisting over his shoulder to glance down at his boyfriend.

Derek greets him with a toothy grin. "Would you like a side of rough with your bite-y today, sir?"

"Ah," Stiles hums, playing along with the bit. "Can I have a sampler taste of the rough, please?"

"Of course," Derek says, tacking on a gruff "sir" at the end just to see the way Stiles' eyes burn with it. He seems to consider something for a moment before making a decision and palming Stiles' ass with a strong, firm hand, winding it back to strike a hard slap across the left cheek at the same time as he bites down on the soft skin above Stiles' hipbone.

Stiles gasps into the sheets and ruts his dick - which is now fully hard - against the bed. "Fuck," he chokes out. "Yes, please, gimme rough."

"You sure?" Derek rumbles teasingly against his ribs. "I'm not gonna talk, or anything."

"Derek," he says, "please, _please_ give me rough."

Derek grins ferally and that's about all the warning Stiles gets before his hips are yanked upwards so he's almost on his knees and elbows, leaving his dripping dick dangling above the sheets. Derek slides, almost feline in his movements, up the bed so that his head is next to Stiles' again, and he takes an earlobe between his teeth, grinning as another sharp smack rings through the sunlit room when he brings his palm down against the meat of Stiles' ass. Stiles keens and leans back into it. Another three smacks, four smacks, five. Stiles' ass cheeks burn pleasantly with the sting of it and he knows they must be shiny red by now, and it hurts when Derek rubs his palm roughly over the globe of one but it also feels really _fucking_ good.

"You want lube?" Derek growls in his ear, and it takes him a moment to register the question. When he does he shakes his head frantically.

Derek's chest rumbles with a throaty laugh. "Kinky bitch."

Stiles nods just as frantically, choking on a sob as Derek shoves a finger in his ass up to the first knuckle with nothing to ease its way but willpower.

"More," Stiles mumbles, squeezing his eyes shut against the sunlight and the discomfort and rutting his hips back. He's rewarded for his efforts, Derek pushing until his finger is in up to the palm. Suddenly, the teeth at his ear are gone as Derek sits up to watch his work. He leans down and spits a fat glob of saliva onto where his finger disappears into Stiles, and then he's pressing the tip of a second one against Stiles' rim and Stiles is arching his back as far it will go, basking in the stretch of it and fucking himself back onto Derek's hand.

Derek chuckles and hums. "Greedy," is all he says before a third finger is nudging at Stiles' entrance. It hurts - holy fuck, it _hurts_ \- but that's kind of the point, and Stiles feels a dribble of precome ooze out of the tip of his dick and drip towards the sheets.

"Der," he pleads, "Baby, can you bite my neck? I need you to bite my neck."

Derek hunches over him, a little awkwardly with his fingers still working their way into his ass, and mouths wetly at the nape of his neck, at the soft flesh right next to the bony knobs of his spine. Obedient - as he ever is, in bed - he latches his teeth down in a tight clamp around the flesh and begins to slowly fuck three fingers in and out of Stiles.

"Harder," Stiles gasps.

He doesn't know whether he means the fingers or the bite or both, but Derek seems to take it as both and obeys, fucking him roughly yet somehow ardently and biting down so hard that Stiles shudders.

"Harder," he repeats. Derek, ever desperate to be a good, obedient boy, rams his fingers into Stiles and stabs at his prostate. The sharp kiss of it makes a groan tumble out from between Stiles' teeth, and he rolls his hips back to meet Derek's hand. Still, it's not quite enough.

"Sweetheart," he rasps. "Please bite me harder."

"You'll bleed," Derek says around the flesh in his teeth.

"Fuck yeah, good," Stiles groans, fisting his hands in the sheets above his head and feeling like he might explode as Derek slams his fingers in and out of him.

"You're weird," Derek mumbles, muffled through the bite, but does as he's asked and, in an animalistic display of strength, clamps down hard enough that Stiles feels blood well up and dribble out, hot and almost itchy as it drips down the side of his neck towards the sheets. He wails and comes so hard his vision goes a little wonky at the edges.

The aftershocks last long after he's collapsed, boneless, into the bed, and Derek strokes the fingers that were just inside him soothingly up and down the entire length of his spine until he summons up enough energy to roll over. He blinks up, only to realise that Derek has a smudge of blood on his chin, and his dick gives a valiant jerk at the sight.

"Fuck," he breathes. "That was awesome."

Derek must realise from Stiles' gaze that there's something on his chin, because he raises his hand to rub at it and comes away with flakes of rusty red coating the pads of his fingers. He presses those fingers to Stiles' cheek and smiles.

"You're weird. And hot. And kinky," he grumbles fondly.

"Like you're not," Stiles huffs warmly, and looks up at the ceiling. It's a nice ceiling to look at it. "I'm dating a werewolf," he tells it dreamily.

"Hey, guess what."

He looks back at Derek, feeling like he might float away with the bliss of it all.

"We're dating," Derek grins smugly.

Stiles laughs. "We totally are, dude. That's pretty fucking cool."

"So cool," Derek says, crowding him into the sheets to press kisses all over his face.

***

The meeting with Maddy is weird, to say the least. She's a short, stocky blonde, her arms dotted with moles like Stiles' and her square jaw set hard with determination. The paddock they've agreed to meet in is just outside the reach of their territory. It has wild yellow aspens dotted along its borders and nice, soft grass, and the white fences lined up along the edges are dusted on top with warmly coloured leaves like sugar on a cake, making it look like something straight out of an autumn postcard. The air is cold but the sun is bright, and Stiles grips Derek's hand as subtly as he can in his own.

"I'm not asking for your territory," Maddy bites out.

"You were," Scott says.

"Not even asking," Derek grunts from the side of the paddock. "You were going to try and take it."

"I was," she nods. "Can you blame me?"

There's a small chorus of "yes"s from the pack, spread out across the paddock in the most nonthreatening positions they can manage.

Maddy grimaces. "I'm not from a pack, like you. I got rejected by the wolf who turned me."

"So you killed them," Erica says, folding her arms.

"It was either kill or be killed," Maddy shrugs. "I'm sure you can all relate."

There's a begrudging grumble of agreeance across the paddock.

"We were all kicked out of our packs," Maddy continues. "I took my betas in and they took me in. We're looking for territory to live in, we don't really want any trouble."

"But you're trying to overthrow another to pack to get it," Stiles snorts.

"How else would you suggest I do it?" She asks sharply.

Allison pipes up from the back. "Find non-claimed territory."

"Tried that," Maddy says dully.

"Treaty with another pack," Boyd offers solemnly.

"Tried that. None of them want to compromise."

"You could... just join another pack," Scott says gently from the very centre of the group.

That slows Maddy a little. "I hadn't thought of that," she says. Then something seems to snap her back into her previous coldness. "But if none of the packs we've met have wanted to treaty with us, how many do you think would willingly take us in?"

"Depends," Derek growls. "How many have you met like you met us, killing our people and trying to trap us?"

Maddy bristles and Stiles gives Derek's hand a warning squeeze under the puffy sleeve of his jacket. His boyfriend glances at him, twisting his lips, but doesn't say anything before turning back out to face Maddy.

"A few," Maddy says cryptically. Her tone is far from apologetic. "But nonetheless. Give me Greydon and I'll back out graciously, leave you alone."

"Greydon?" Stiles whispers.

"The beta," Derek breathes back.

There's a silence as they all consider her words. Birds chirp cheerfully from somewhere above them, and Stiles wonders at the fact that they chose such a beautiful setting for such a tense conversation.

Then: "No way," Scott says. "Greydon's going to jail. And honestly, you should be, too."

"Scott," Allison admonishes, but there's no real heat behind it. Stiles can tell from her tone that she agrees.

Maddy laughs, and it's an ugly laugh. "No," she says.

"Yes," Derek replies instantly. "He's in our territory, now, and we'll decide what to do with him."

"No," Maddy growls out again.

"Yes," Derek snarls. "You have no power in this situation, Maddy. Don't try to gain any - that might end really fucking poorly for you."

"Wait," Scott says slowly. "If we let you go, are you just gonna take your other betas and go around the country killing more civilians in an attempt to get your hands on another pack's territory?"

Maddy's silent for long enough that they all know her answer.

"That's fucked," says Jackson, the first words he's spoken the entire meeting.

Maddy seems to realise that she'll have to edit herself in this conversation if she wants to get anywhere. Stiles almost snorts at her efforts - they seem incredibly unnatural coming from her thin lips. "Be that as it may," she says slowly, "I am just trying to survive."

"There's better ways to do it, dude," Scott says.

"Way better," Stiles agrees loudly.

Maddy shrugs. "Would you take me in?"

She's answered with an uncomfortable silence.

"I rest my case," she says.

"We'll take you _out_ ," Stiles mutters under his breath, earning him an exasperated hand squeeze from Derek.

Scott takes a step forward. "If you're gonna go out there and murder more people," he says, "I don't know if we can let you leave."

Everyone seems to take a breath in. The moment hangs in the air like a great delicate crystal, and then it falls to the ground and shatters.

"Try and stop me," Maddy snarls, and she turns on her heel and moves so fast that Stiles' eyes, like, literally can't actually comprehend it. The six wolves from his own pack are gone in a blur, Derek's hand yanked out of his so fast that he feels like he might have windburn across his knuckles. He, Allison, and Lydia are left standing in the paddock, staring after where their friends have gone. There's not much they can do but huddle in so they're standing next to each other and wait.

***

Allison lies back in the paddock, anxiously gazing at the clouds, and Lydia is typing something furiously on her phone. Stiles doesn't know what and he doesn't much care at that moment, because the rest of their pack comes limping back into the paddock and he jumps down from where he's perched on the fence to run at Derek and tackle him. Their embrace is strong and warm and kind of reminds Stiles of sitting beside a fireplace.

"She's dead," Scott gasps out around Allison's arms.

Stiles huffs out a ragged breath and Derek, bless his soul, interprets it completely correctly, burrowing Stiles even closer to his chest and murmuring, "She wouldn't stop fighting. We couldn't have turned her in, she would have killed everyone around her. It took most of us to get her down in the first place, how would humans have dealt?"

Stiles nods. "I trust you," he mumbles into Derek's coat.

***

No potluck this time. They crowd around a campfire in the backyard, munching on Chinese takeout and sharing swigs from three different bottles of rum that are getting passed around the circle. Jackson rolls a couple joints and they pass those around as well, just two between the nine of them not near enough to get anyone truly high - especially with all of the wolfy metabolisms - but it's lovely to have something to get at least a little kick out of, to hold in their fingers and mouths and share with each other.

"This is nice," Lydia sighs, leaning back in her camp chair. "I love fall."

"Me too," Stiles murmurs, reaching out to curl the tips of his fingers around hers. She flashes him a blinding smile in return.

"Me three," Scott pipes up from his other side, a little drunker than the rest of them already. "And I love you guys."

"Scotty," Stiles says, pressing a hand over his heart. "You big softie."

Scott grins at him toothily, and it's so boyish that Stiles almost wants to cry. He's so fucking happy. He sits there for a while, his fingers clutched in Lydia's and his ankles laid across Scott's in the dirt, and he catches Derek's eyes often through the blaze of the fire, staring at him, and feverishly returns his gaze. He looks around at his pack, sprawled around the campfire sleepily and slurping down the last boxes of chow mein and sweet and sour pork. Something twists so pleasantly in his gut that he thinks it might kill him with its divinity, and he wiggles in his seat a little, feeling like he's about to burst out of his skin or start dancing or something.

When the rum has settled into their systems enough that Stiles is shameless in crawling into Derek's lap in front of everyone, he does so, incredibly thankful that Derek's chair is away from where the smoke is blowing. Their combined body heat and the campfire prove to be enough for Stiles to strip out of his jacket and then his flannel so that he doesn't get all sweaty, and Erica's whistle from across the circle makes him grin.

"Thank you," he calls. "Thank you very much!" Allison and Scott join in with the whistles and jeers when he straddles Derek's lap, rising up on his knees in the rickety camp chair, and swings his flannel suggestively above his head as he continues. "It's been a pleasure, Chicago. The next city I'll hit with the sell-out tour of "White Boy Stripping Down To White T-shirt" is Fort Wayne, so get ready, Fort Wayne!"

There are laughs and more drunken cheers as he waves his hand and blows a kiss to the campfire. Derek digs a possessive hand into his thigh and pulls him back down so he can nose roughly underneath his jaw, and it's all Stiles can do not to shiver.

"The only place you'll be touring tonight is my bedroom," Derek growls into his ear.

Stiles laughs breathlessly. "Is that a promise, angel?"

Derek, who Stiles can tell - even in the dim firelight - is blushing something fierce, nods his head and kisses the side of his neck.

***

Derek makes good on his promise. Two orgasms - each - after they'd gotten up to the bedroom, Stiles swings an aching leg over Derek's hips so he can pull himself up to straddle his boyfriend, who's lying spread-eagle on his back. Thoroughly finger-fucked, desperately sweaty, and always always _always_ hungry for more, Stiles bows his sticky chest so he can can kiss Derek's stubbly cheek.

"You've never been fucked before," Stiles whispers, a question phrased like a statement.

Derek shakes his head minutely. His skin glows in the warm light of the lamp.

"Would you... want me to fuck you?"

"Yes," Derek breathes. "Yeah. Please."

"Okay. Good," Stiles says. He lets a touch of authority bleed into his voice. "Not tonight, though."

"Not tonight," Derek agrees amiably, bringing his fingers up to grip just under the curve of Stiles' ass.

"Tonight," Stiles states, keeping his voice as matter-of-fact as he can because he knows it will wind Derek up, "I'm gonna ride you really fucking hard."

Derek shudders out a keening sigh, sweeping his hands up and the down the backs of Stiles' thighs. He reaches up to kiss Stiles, running his tongue along Stiles' lower lip and gently pressing it inside his mouth.

"If that's okay," Stiles pulls back and amends, suddenly nervous. After all, this will be further than they've ever gone before, and he wants to check that Derek is absolutely, completely, and utterly onboard.

Derek nods, but Stiles grips his chin calmly and peers down into his eyes.

"Words, Der. Is it one-hundred percent okay if we fuck tonight?"

"If we don't fuck tonight, I might die," Derek says, the hint of a grin teasing at the corners of his eyes.

Stile huffs a laugh and presses a gently teasing, "mm, being over-dramatic," against Derek's lips.

It must be nearly dawn - they've been up here for hours. Translucent curtains billow out over the open window, and night air dances in to caress their skin with a cool kiss. It's a really, really lovely juxtaposition to the feverish heat of Derek's body against his own.

"Condom or no? Your choice, I'm clean," he says.

Derek grunts and shakes his head. "Don't need one. Werewolf."

Stiles grins. "Cool. I really wanna feel you come inside me, so that works out pretty great."

He laughs at Derek's responding thready whine and presses down to kiss him before sitting up and rolling his hips back to feel the ridge of Derek's cock hot and hard as iron against his sloppy, abused rim. They'd used lube tonight, the rum coaxing Stiles into craving a little more of a gentle deliverance, and he reaches for the tube where it lies tangled in the sheets and clicks it open.

"Hand, please," he says.

Derek obediently lifts his palm and Stiles squirts a fat dollop into it.

"Be a good boy and spread that around your cock, please, sweetheart."

Derek fumbles to obey, reaching underneath Stiles and leaving a cold smear of lube on the underside of his thigh. The only sound in the room apart from their breathing and the sweet whistle of the wind is the wet, filthy sound as Derek gently tugs on his length, slicking it up as best he can, and then Stiles adjusts himself so his knees are relatively comfortable and reaches behind himself to take over from his boyfriend. He grips Derek's dick at the base and slowly wiggles his hips down until he can feel its plush head catch against his entrance.

Derek stutters out a groan and a "please - oh fuck, _Stiles_ ," as Stiles lowers himself down, taking his sweet time to get adjusted and make sure everything is going smoothly.

"Keep still, baby."

Derek whimpers but does as he's told, flexing his hands against the backs of Stiles' thighs and gripping hard with his stupidly strong fingers.

Stiles lets out a satisfied sigh when he bottoms out, and then just sits there for a moment, reveling in the fullness he feels and the way his stillness seems to drive Derek absolutely crazy. Yet despite the desperate whining sounds that intersperse Derek's panting and the way his fingers clutch reflexively and rhythmically at Stiles' skin, he doesn't move his hips an inch, and Stiles brings one of the werewolf's hands from where it sits under his thigh up towards his face. He kisses at the inside of Derek's wrist, nuzzling the soft skin there.

"You're so fucking good for me, holy shit. I know how hard it must be to keep still right now, but you're doing so well. Good boy." Derek wails softly under the praise. "My favourite little slut."

Derek looks like he's about to cry with the effort of his stillness, so Stiles takes pity on him and gives his hips an experimental roll. Both of them gasp feverishly with the movement, and then Stiles falls easily into a languorous pace, his poor thighs aching as they chase his third orgasm of the night. Rather than fully lifting up and sinking down, Stiles decides to keep rolling his hips for now, his spine curving and arching as he chases sensation. Derek moves his hands so that they clutch at Stiles' waist, impossibly warm and large and tan where they sit under his ribs, and when Stiles looks down, Derek has his eyes squeezed shut in concentration.

"Hey. Look at me."

Derek does.

"Good boy. I'm gonna go faster now, okay?"

Derek nods, seemingly unable to stammer out any words. Stiles, true to his word, picks up the pace, pulling off more with each turn of his hips and treating Derek to a punishing rhythm that makes them both groan. Stiles puts his hand flat against Derek's chest, over his heart. It's beating a beautiful tattoo up against his ribs and Stiles is overwhelmed with desperate affection for the man beneath him.

"Beautiful boy," he murmurs. "You astonishing boy. You are so fucking good to me, I can't even begin to describe how you make me feel."

Derek's eyebrows knit together with painful sincerity above his big, beautiful eyes, which are staring faithfully into Stiles' - he hasn't looked away since given the instruction to maintain eye contact. Stiles wants to sob.

"You are so fucking perfect. Wait, come here." He slows the roll of his hips. "Sit up, sweetheart. Wanna have you as close to me as possible."

"I'm already inside you," Derek pants, but sits up all the same. "How much closer can I get?"

Stiles drapes his arms around Derek's neck and feels a beautiful sense of loving vindication when Derek's arms automatically slide up to curl him into a tight embrace, one around the small of his back and the other cradling the back of his head.

"That's it, honey. Hold me - fuck, your arms are big."

"Shush," Derek says.

"No way," Stiles laughs. "You work really hard for these muscles, I can compliment them all I like." He turns his head to press a kiss against Derek's bicep. "I love your arms. Big, slutty arms."

Derek groans. "Why is that hot?" he mumbles, sounding adorably indignant. "That shouldn't be hot."

Stiles scoffs. "As if anything could be _not_ hot with you in the room."

In the low lamp-light, Stiles sees with a blazing, possessive twist of victory in his gut that Derek is blushing all across his shoulders and chest. He tips Derek's face up, rocking steadily on his dick, and thumbs where the blush is appearing, dark and warm, on his cheeks.

"You've been a really good boy, Der. You can move your hips now if you want," he says lightly.

"Oh thank God," Derek hisses, and suddenly he's pounding up into Stiles with a thundering pace so hard that Stiles feels his teeth rattle a little and _holy shit oh my god_ _that's good_. Stiles throws his head back and whines. On every third thrust or so, Derek nails his prostate and it's fucking _delicious_ , and between that and the rough slam of their bodies together - Derek's movements almost artfully careless - Stiles feels like he's about to combust, because this is so. Damn. Good.

He laughs breathlessly and rolls his head back around so that he's facing Derek again.

"You're desperate," he pants out, "desperate and slutty." With a grin, he rocks his hips down to meet Derek's hard thrusts and presses kisses to Derek's nose, to his cheeks, to his forehead and lips and against his sweaty temple. "Slutty, slutty, slutty. Angelically so."

"Stiles," Derek breathes out, his lips finding a place against the meat of Stiles' shoulder. "I'm gonna -"

Stiles, rolling his hips furiously, says, "Go ahead, sweet boy. You're such a good fucking boy, you deserve it. Come for me."

And then he's clenching around Derek and Derek is shooting hot and wet up inside him, and now instead of lips against his shoulder there are teeth which are clamping down _hard_ as Derek's orgasm is wrung out of him, and Stiles throws his head back again and yells as he comes between their sweaty stomachs. He keeps riding, rolling his hips until Derek unlatches his teeth from Stiles' shoulder, whimpers with over-sensitivity, and slowly pulls him up and off his cock.

They collapse down into the mattress, Stiles half strewn atop Derek and kissing every inch of his skin that he can reach. He feels a trickle of something hot drip down the inside of his thigh and he grins.

"We banged," he says maniacally.

"We did," Derek nods sagely, sounding really well fucked-out. Stiles gives himself a mental pat on the back.

They lie there in the sheets for - Stiles doesn't know, maybe only minutes, maybe hours. It's freaking cold, so they huddle together and throw a fuzzy blanket over themselves, uncaring that they're marking it up with sweat and lube and come.

"That was really fucking nice," Stiles whispers. "I can't wait to do it again."

He feels Derek nod against him sleepily. "Me too."

He doesn't think he's ever smiled wider or felt warmer in his life.


End file.
